


The Best Way to a Man's Heart

by tinymouse



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF, mcfassy - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Community: mcfassy, Cookies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fingerfucking, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Rough Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinymouse/pseuds/tinymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has just started working in a bakery where Michael is a regular customer. James is instantly attracted, and starts baking and decorating cakes for Michael to 'sample' as an attempt in seduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The best way to a man's heart...

His first day goes just like any first day should. He’s tossed an apron, given a pair of tongs and shoved behind the glass display of cakes, looking flustered, lost and like he’s about to throw up. He’s not too sure what to think of his boss. Her name is January, she appears nice enough but there’s something off about her (her eyes are almost chilling he thinks) but her voice is light and pleasant.

She’s showing him how the cashier works - and it looks about a hundred years old but it ‘adds to the atmosphere of the shop’ evidently (prehistoric is the look they must be going for, James thinks), she takes the tongs from his stiff hands and hangs them on the thin metal rack above the display, she tells him to calm down three times before James actually does it, and he tries to listen.

“Okay, see here?”

She’s pointing to another button, James nods.

“This’ll calculate the total to charge--”

A customer walks in, the bell above the door tinkles and January and James look up. It’s a man in a suit - he comes in with a briefcase held up over his head, shielding his dark hair from the rain, and he’s wearing aviators, despite the sun being weak and hidden beneath a thick, woolen blanket of clouds. He’s dressed to the nines, a suit that fits him wonderfully, it’s off grey, not quite pale, but not dark, either. His tie doesn’t match the suit, nor the plain white shirt he’s wearing underneath (the pale shirt that’s see through in some areas from the insistent rain, not that James is _drawn to that_ or anything). He’s holding a briefcase in his left hand, and he’s slipping an iphone into the pocket of his trousers with his right, only to lift the hand to his aviators, removing them from the bridge of his nose and - oh.

James doesn’t know what colour those eyes are. They look green. But blue, too. And grey. He blinks. Licks his lips and traps his bottom lip between his teeth, they’re blue. Definitely blue, but then he looks up, meets James’ gaze and no - they are green, but he blinks and god James doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. He’s standing there like a bloody idiot, and he’s almost glad when January pinches his arm.

“Watch me, alright?”

James takes a step back and the bloke smiles widely at January and his teeth are endless. It’s not really a grin, James thinks. It looks more like a leer and he doesn’t know why January looks so goddamn calm. They’re talking, oh god they’re talking and his voice is low, rough, but silky at the same time. Like velvet rubbed the wrong way.

“James?” January prompts, glances over her shoulder at him.

“I - Sorry, yes, yes…” and then, “what?”

“A caramel muffin and iced cupcake.” She says, somewhat incredulously.

James hurries to grab the tongs, he can feel both their eyes on him as he bends to retrieve the caramel muffin, he slips it into a brown paper bag, and straightens again, looks at the bloke in the suit and his words die on his tongue. “Er… what… what flavor did you want?” he asks, voice coming out an octave higher than he intends.

“Which would you recommend?” and the bloke’s voice is smooth, calm, and James hates how ridiculous he sounds in comparison. He leans right over the display, elbows on the glass. Looks at James directly, and he feels even more like a blithering idiot in this stupid apron.

“Uh… the um…” He wants to kick himself, “The vanilla is always… nice.” Fuck that. He needs an anvil.

“Vanilla then.”

Anvil.

“Alright.”

James fishes one out from the rack (it just so happens to be one with white frosting and a pink sugared heart in the center, totally accidental), he slips it into the bag, too, and then he holds it out for January, who takes it from him and hands it to the man.

“Eight fifty.” She says, with a charming little smile that honestly gives this bloke’s one a run for his money.

He hands her a note, he hasn’t looked away from James, “Keep the change.” and those stupid sunglasses seem to come out of nowhere, and it’s only when they conceal those steely eyes that James is able to look away.

The door closes behind him, and James watches him until he’s out of sight, past their glass windows and January’s shoving his arm.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” James blinks.

“You were _absolutely_ \- !” She points after the man, but shakes her head almost with a knowing smile, “Never mind. Come. I need to explain the breads.”

They spend an hour on the pricing of bread, January informs him how different types of breads have different prices and it’s imperative that he knows Vienna Loafs from Baguettes (‘How could you mix those up, James?!’), and then she begins teaching him how to frost the cupcakes, and James actually _enjoys_ that. She’s chattering away about her current boyfriend, and her plans for her baby, which isn’t due until spring. He’s getting good at this, which is surprising him considerably. It’s easy. James hasn’t ever thought of himself at being particularly good at anything before. Maybe icing cupcakes were his calling after all.

“I’ll leave you to the rest of these.” January finishes her cupcake with a flourish and places it down for James to place on the display and moves off to the cashier to serve the two young women whom had just strode in.

He hopes he’s doing well for his first day - anvils aside, James honestly didn’t mind it. It beat retail in every sense of the word, the customers here appeared to be a lot nicer (or maybe that’s just January’s influence, he isn’t sure).

They close up at five, and January gives him a name tag with ‘James’ written in pink cursive, he arches a brow at her but she says nothing of it. She shoos him out to lock up, and he goes home feeling somewhat accomplished.

-

James arrives the next day at eight thirty in the morning. The scent of freshly-baked bread warms his senses as he walks through the double doors of the bakery, and January gives him a bright smile. He wonders if she’s been here since five like the bakers had. He doubts it. It’s not humanly possible to look that happy if you’ve been awake for that long.

He doesn’t ask, slips on his pale-white apron and pins on his stupid name tag and returns to frosting cupcakes. He’s honestly getting better. The pipe seems a lot more compliant and ready to frost the top of a cupcake rather than James’ elbow, and several customers have stopped to watch his work. He feels a surge of satisfaction at that, and keeps his smug smiles to himself as he presses a sugared yellow star to the top of a chocolate one.

January leaves for lunch at eleven-thirty, and James takes over the cashier.

 _He_ comes in again.

James looks away quickly, makes out like he wasn’t waiting for him to walk through that door, to ring their little bell to announce his presence. But he’s positively jittery on the inside when he meets those bluegreengrey eyes, and he almost seems genuinely pleased when James is the one to take his order.

“Caramel muffin, please.”

Again.

James nods once. Doesn’t trust his voice to come out falsetto like last time, and lifts a pair of tongs from the thin metal rack and fishes out a caramel muffin, he slips it into a brown paper bag and looks up at the bloke. He’s got his eye on James’ cupcakes. James swallows. Tests his voice, “Anything else?”

“Yes. I’ll have chocolate today.” He points to the cupcake closest to James. “The vanilla was superb. You don’t make these, do you?”

James moves behind the display again and retrieves the cupcake the suit-man had pointed out to him, “I decorate them. I don’t… I don’t bake them.” He says, avoiding looking into those ridiculously charming eyes because he knows his voice will deflate again.

“Ah.” He takes the bag from James, their fingers brush and James makes the mistake of looking up as he opens his mouth to charge.

Anvil.

“Eight… um… eight fifty.”

He grins at James and oh, god.

Anvil. Anvil, anvil, anvil, _anvil_.

“Keep the change.” he presses the note into James’ hand. But he doesn’t leave immediately, “So, you’re new here?”

“Y-Yeah..” James finds himself stuck, rooted to the spot.

“I’m sure you’re doing wonderful so far, you shouldn’t look so terrified!” He might have winked, but it was so fast and so perfect that James is fairly certain he imagined it. Then, the bloke is taking the brown bags, and leaving with a wave.

He’s secretly glad January isn’t here. He watches the suit-man until he’s out of sight again, holding the note stiffly in his hand, before he manages to stuff it into the old cashier. What could he be? A lawyer? He looked the part. Dressed in those perfect suits with those shiny shoes and that sleek black briefcase and those stupid sunglasses James wants to stand on.

It’s entirely possible. Or an accountant, perhaps. There are firms all over this part of town. It honestly wouldn’t surprise James, but all the lawyers he’s come across have been about twenty kilograms overweight with bald patches and thick-rimmed glasses, and all the accountants he’d met had been short-tempered and gifted with more money than they knew what to do with. An attitude that didn’t suit that man, either.

He pushes the cashier closed, and chews on his lower lip in thought, wonders if this bloke is a regular and looks up with a start as January returns with a bagel for his lunch.

-

He comes in every day. Like clockwork, at twelve in the afternoon and he orders the same thing. Always a caramel muffin, and something else - that’s different each day, to go with it. James watches January serve him, while Lucas serves three rowdy boys a full chocolate cake. He’d tried to get to the cashier first, but January had given him an icy look that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end (he honestly does like her, she’s just terrifying when she wants to be, Lucas agrees with him).

He pretends he’s not listening in, and decides immediately that he must be a regular, and he thinks January said his name (Fassbender? James isn’t sure he heard right), and she asks if it’s been busy in ‘the office’ and James catches himself staring as the bloke glances over at him and hastily returns to the cupcake in his left hand.

He leaves soon thereafter, but not before giving James a one-handed salute in farewell. James doesn’t have time to respond, and his hands are full of icing and cupcake which he subsequently drops as Fassbender rounds the corner and vanishes out of sight. He rounds on January.

“Who is that man?” He asks, all purposes of subtlety gone.

“What man?” She asks, focussing her attentions on a pastry display to the left of the counter. James follows her.

“The one who just left!”

She smiles to herself, and James thinks she’s a cruel, cruel woman.

“Oh, him? Only another customer, James. Why do you ask?”

“He comes in every day.” James hovers over her shoulder as she moves the croissants to the front of the display.

“And? Plenty of people come in here daily. What makes him a point of interest?”

“I-…” James blinks, “His name is Fassbender?”

“Yes. His last name.”

“How do you know?”

“Honey, I’ve worked here for three years. He’s bought over six hundred caramel muffins from me in that time.” She turns to face James, one hand on her hip. “Why are you so keen to know?”

“What’s his job? Do you know?” James wets his lips.

“He’s a lawyer.” She says, offhandedly, “You could always just ask him for yourself, you know. He doesn’t bite.” and she turns away from James to greet the old lady whom had just shuffled in. James looks back over the busy main road, and watches the colourless people wait at the traffic lights.

-

Thursdays are January’s days off. He’s sharing a shift with Lucas, who looks oddly fascinated with his icing work, he stands at James’ left, watching him maneuver the pipe around the flat top of the chocolate muffin. James has one eye on the time, and the other on the street. It’s twelve o’clock, and he finishes his cupcake and sets it down. James sees Fassbender coming around the corner and he moves quickly behind the cashier. He hears Lucas’ confusion, clearly he’d been prepared to take James’ place.

“Where are you - look at you, see?” He’s just behind James, blue eyes fixed on the man coming through the glass doors, “You do this every time he comes in here - look how excited you get!”

“Shut up, I’m just trying to be responsible.” James snaps, giving Lucas a little shove, he smoothes down his apron and offers the bloke a smile as he strides up to the counter - even the way he walks carries an air of casual elegance.

“Let me guess, a caramel muffin?” James smiles, and he thinks he might be getting better at this.

“I’m getting predictable.” He takes off those stupid sunglasses, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile.

“I’d call it dependable.” James says, “You could try something else, you know. We’ve got all kinds of things here.”

But as he speaks he takes the tongs and fishes a caramel muffin from the tray and slips it into a brown paper bag.

“Surprise me.” Is the response, “Give me something you made.”

James blinks, almost forgets he’s holding the tongs in his left hand, but he nods. He returns to the cupcake he’d set down moments ago and slips it into a separate bag, he returns to the cashier, and the bloke’s eyes stay on him as his shaking hand punches in the numbers onto the old machine.

“Eight fifty.” As always. He takes the money offered to him, and holds out the bags for the bloke to take, “Have a nice day, sir.”

“Michael.” The man says, gives him a slight smile, “I’d rather be Michael to you than ‘Caramel Muffin’.”

James grins, “I’m James...” he half points to the ridiculous name tag - and then hopes Michael hasn’t noticed it, but knows he probably has because it’s pink for Christ’s sake. He holds out a hand, and Michael shakes his once, firmly. His hands are cold, and James’ are warm. That icy touch has goosebumps rise on his skin. At least… James convinces himself that it’s the cold that does it. James lets go once he realizes he’s held on a fraction too long.

“Until tomorrow.” Michael holds up his bag in farewell as he leaves. James watches him go. Head bowed against the steadily heavy rain, dark hair turning darker as it collects the falling water.

“Smooth.”

James’ head whips around, and Lucas is leaning against the break room door, arms folded over his chest.

“You’re shit at flirting.”

“What?”

“Come on James. You’re like a mouse!” Lucas strides over to him, “You’re all excitable when he comes in and then you fuck it all up by flailing around.”

“I did _not_ flail--”

Lucas just smirks. “Whatever. When you want advice, though, I’m here.” He claps James on the shoulder and then turns, retrieves the broom and begins sweeping the floors.

-

Friday goes by relatively quickly. James would almost say he’s beginning to enjoy work, he thinks it’s just Michael. Michael and his stupid face. It’s what’s getting him out of his bed in the mornings. He’s on shift with January and Lucas - because Fridays are normally the busiest. At eleven fourty-five, Lucas slips him a crumpled piece of paper, James smoothes it out and blinks at the image scribbled thereupon. He assumes it’s meant to be a stick figure of himself with mouse ears, and holding his stick-figure hand is something that looks a lot like a shark in aviators with legs.

James shoves it into the right pocket of his trousers and hopes his washing machine destroys it.

At five minutes to twelve, Lucas draws January’s attentions to a rogue, charred chunk of bread in the kitchen and then forces James to the cashier while he tries his hand at icing (it’s too painful for James to watch) and sure enough, Michael comes in, twelve on the dot.

He’s particularly rugged up today. A long coat reaches his knees and a thick scarf hides his neck, he’s not wearing his sunglasses today, James notes, and he has a small fight with his pockets as he tries to tug his hands free.

“I suppose I can start saying ‘the usual’ now, eh?” He smiles at James, and he stands still, just waits for that anvil to come crashing through the ceiling and he’s honestly surprised when it doesn’t.

He only laughs (though it comes out like a splutter) and reaches for a caramel muffin. “Another iced cupcake?” He asks.

“Please.” He hears Michael say, and somehow his accent makes that single word sound a lot more titillating than it actually is. “You’re quite talented.” He says, as James straightens up, “I expect it’d take a lot of precision to be able to…” he gestures the pipe with his hands and James merely nods.

“Practice.” He says, offhandedly, with a shrug.

“I think it’d take a lot more than practice.”

James’ gaze meets his, and he realizes this must be flattery a moment too late.

“Chocolate today?” He asks, and Michael smiles, no teeth.

“Surprise me.” He says, again.

James does exactly that. Rather than giving him a cupcake at all, he takes a gingerbread man, slips it into the paper bag, and hands it over to Michael.

“Seven fifty.” He says, and Michael pays, and leaves with another lingering farewell, and James watches him go.

“I will murder you with a spatula.”

“What--..” James steps away from the blonde boy - who is holding that icing pipe a little too threateningly.

January lets them both clock off half an hour early, and James is eager to leave. It’s a long walk home, but collapsing onto his overstuffed couch makes it worth it. He rather likes his place - it’s decent for the rent he pays, and the bakery’s pay is more than reasonable. It isn’t important now, though. He has the weekend to himself, and what a weekend it will be.

-

It’s an incredibly uneventful weekend.

James spends Saturday hungover, in which he makes an egg-white omelette for dinner and burns his left thumb, then he spends a full half-hour staring at Lucas’ mouse-shark drawing before he tears it into tiny pieces and throws it out of the window of his bathroom.

On Sunday he’s sober, but drags himself from the cozy enclosure that is his bed at midday, and doesn’t eat until three, and when he does, it’s a stale loaf of Wednesday’s bread, forced into his arms by January (whom always complains that he doesn’t eat enough for the man that he is), and answers a phone call from some nasal delivery technology service for longer lasting sex that he has no desire for - nor would he ever need, thank you.

-

He goes in to work looking positively sullen on Monday.

That’s the problem with being friends with your co-workers. They’re the only people you see, and you see them so much, you don’t want to see them outside of work anymore. James’ social life is about as fascinating as watching grass grow, his love life - however - is about as fascinating as watching identical slugs mate.

Their week passes like a blur. James serves Michael on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. He brings in two other men from his work on Wednesday, and praises James’ talent in front of them. By Friday, James has his order ready for him, already bagged. A caramel muffin and a batch of Gingerbread cookies he’d made himself to go along with it. He’d put them in a box, and hoped that it wasn’t… too obvious what his intentions were.

Lucas didn’t help.

“It looks like a penis.”

“What?” James had sped to his side.

Lucas was holding up one of the cookies that had intended to be a gingerbread man, with a rounded top hat, but his arms and legs had broken off in a fashion that does indeed make him look… a lot like a penis.

James moves to throw it away, but Lucas stops him.

“It’ll be good!” He insists, “Maybe he’ll get the message and look! Here he comes, too late.” He snatches the cookie from James and places it back into the box, he thrusts them both into James’ arms and pushes him toward the counter, before he busies himself with the french bread sticks.

Michael takes off his aviators as he comes to the counter, his gaze falls to the box and bag in James’ stiff hands, and James struggles to explain.

“I uh… I baked these ones myself.” He taps the box, “I want you to try them.” He waves a hand when Michael lifts his leather wallet, “Free of charge. Just… let me know if they’re any good.”

“Alright. Brilliant!” Michael grins, takes the box from James, and lifts the lid enough to peer inside, James resists the overwhelming urge to hide behind the counter, but Michael closes it again - evidently ignorant of the penis-cookie. “They look wonderful. Thank you, James.” He smiles widely, and pays James for the muffin, before leaving with a “I’ll let you know!”

James freaks out for a solid two hours before Lucas manages to calm him down.

-

James’ weekend is unfortunately much more eventful than last week. He goes over to his mothers’ place, where he is coerced into baking several trays of raspberry and white chocolate cookies that his mother and older sister both evidently adore him for, and he sleeps for a solid twelve hours that night. On Sunday he goes to the store to fill up his sadly empty fridge, and goes to bed early.

-

He goes into work early on Monday, and January is there. He’s honestly beginning to believe she lives there. Her boyfriend drops by at eleven, (some bloke called Kevin, who January is arguably far too attractive for) and he continuously gives James these warning looks and there’s something not quite right about him, either. He decides they’re in it together. He’s not sure what ‘it’ is, but Kevin is the sort of guy that would live in a creepy big house on top of a hill with bats and gargoyles. James avoids eye contact with everyone until he’s gone.

He then resists the urge to laugh out loud when he’s told Kevin’s last name is, in fact, ‘Bacon’.

Michael comes in again, he’s two minutes late, not that James was keeping track. (he idly wonders what had kept him).

James is the one to serve him, and he gives Michael a small box of the leftover cookies from Saturday, “They’re not fresh,” he explains, “but they’re quite nice anyway.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Michael smiles, holds out his money and James shakes his head.

“It’s on me.”

Michael shrugs, slips the cash into the tip jar instead. James narrows his eyes at it.

There’s a pause, “Those… biscuits you gave me. They were wonderful. Interesting. But wonderful!”

James just blinks, hopes feebly that the penis-cookie hadn’t been noticed, and manages to splutter a “Thank you.”

Michael takes the little box, and his muffin, and he leaves with a wave goodbye.

James feels like an absolute idiot.

-

He’s stupid for this. It’s a useless ‘crush’ - he realizes it’s a _crush_ when he thinks he sees Michael at the corner store a street over from his apartment, but it’s not. It’s actually just some other bloke with cheekbones that could cut glass and James buys an extra six-pack that night because he isn’t sure how much longer he can stay sane.

-

He goes into work on Tuesday a little hungover, and January scolds him for it, but he ices a cupcake especially _for_ Michael, and only realizes it when he’s finished. He’s used white icing, and tipped it off with blue, drawn a dazzling ‘M’ on the middle. He sets it down, and stares at it for a long moment, before he finds a box that’s suitable enough for just the lone cupcake. It settles snugly inside, and the lid closes, concealing the contents therein. It fits squarely in the palm of James’ hand, and he glances at the time - it’s five minutes to twelve.

He retrieves the caramel muffin, slips it into a brown paper bag and the bell tinkles as someone pushes it open, and it’s Michael. James holds out both the box and bag for him, and Michael seems accustomed to his little surprises now. He takes them both, holds up the box, “Did you make this?”

James nods, gives him a slight smile.

Michael returns the smile, and their gaze lingers.

“I’m late for a meeting, but thank you, James.” He places too much coinage down on the counter, and he’s off, and James has five dollars more than he should, but he slips the extra into their tip jar, and watches as Michael walks away - he swears he sees him peek under the lid of the box, but James tears his eyes away, isn’t certain he wants to see Michael’s reaction.

Unbeknownst to James, January had witnessed their little encounter.

-

On Wednesday, January seemed to spontaneously vanish around midday.

It didn’t matter to James, it was relatively quiet in the bakery. He’d baked red velvet cupcakes for January to try (he truly, truly wants his cakes to be up to par to be sold up front, but she’s still wary), but she’d shaken her head, “You’re getting there.” was her consolidation. James had iced three anyway, white icing in stark and lovely contrast with the blood red of the cupcakes. He’d put them in a white box, and tied it off with a red ribbon.

Michael arrives, and he’s already smiling at James.

James holds out the box, with Michael’s muffin atop it, in it’s brown bag.

“They’re red velvet, let me know how they taste, wont you?”

“I will.” Michael pays him for the caramel muffin, and adds more money James doesn’t want to think about to his tip jar, “How come none of this is for sale for the rest of your depraved public?”

James smiles slightly, “January doesn’t think it’s up to standard yet.”

“Do you need a testimony? Because I’ll do it.”

“No, no.” James laughs, but there’s a dry edge to it, “She’s the expert.”

Thunder rumbles somewhere far off, and the both of them glance out the windows of the bakery.

“Looks like rain.” Michael muses, James wrinkles his nose, and Michael catches this, “Not fond of rain?”

“Not when I have to walk home in it.”

Michael chuckles.

“On that note, I should run. Afternoon, James!” and he’s off, pushing the door open. James watches him go, eyes narrow, because he’s charming and handsome but still scruffy, rugged, like a rough diamond. He has that set to his brow that suggests there’s a lot more to him than the endless kindness and wide smiles he reserves for James, and he isn’t sure he wants to follow through, isn’t sure he’s prepared to truly _know_ Michael.

All things considered, James would love to see the other man in his element, in a court room. Defending his client. He smiles to himself at the thought, and January returns, frightening him, he yelps like a puppy.

James all but runs home, and the rain sprinkles down.

He doesn’t see the black porsche that follows him down an avenue at all. It takes a left where he turns right.

-

It’s Thursday, James is on shift with Lucas, who keeps pestering him for more information on Michael, information that James refuses to give.

“At least tell me if your flirting has improved, McAvoy!”

“Leave me alone.” James tries to keep his eyes fixed on the white-chocolate cupcake he’s holding. It’s just the one, but he’s keen on giving it to Michael. His mother loved everything James made with white chocolate, and these cupcakes sat at the top of her list. He hopes Michael will like it, too.

“Got some eyelid batting going on? Scottish swag? Jiggle to your steps? Flicks of your mane-like hair? Charming giggling? What’s it like trying to flirt with a shark?”

“He’s not a shark, for fuck’s sake.”

“Are you sure? Have you _seen_ those teeth? I’m honestly in admiration of you, McAvoy, I’d be too terrified he’d bite off my - here he comes! Come on.” He gives James a shove toward the counter as the bell chimes to signal Michael’s entry.

James is more pleased than usual to see Michael, partly because it shut Lucas up, but mostly because he’s wearing that wide smile James likes to pretend is especially for him.

He slides the white box with the cupcake in it, and holds out the paper bag for him. Michael takes the bag, and their fingers touch again, and he’s cold. “Another surprise?” He asks, “Those cakes were divine. January is mad.” Michael is saying, he pays James for the muffin, but James snatches the tip jar before Michael can drop his hefty was of cash into it.

“Please?”

James shakes his head, he sighs, and slips it back into the left pocket of his trousers.

“Thank you, though. Really. I’m glad you like them.”

Michael waves a hand, “I should really be thanking you.” He glances at his watch (it’s a Rolex for crying out loud), “I should be off. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

As always, James watches him go.

It’s Lucas whom scares him then, touches his shoulder, and then swears James jumps eight feet.

“So you bake… _exclusively_ for him, now?”

-

It’s just him and January on shift, Lucas took the day off to spend with some twitchy boy called Nick whom had come by to purchase a dozen hot crossed buns to surprise Lucas with (James didn’t ask why), and the weather was getting progressively worse and worse as time wore on. It was windy, and icily cold. The sort of cold that burnt skin. Left hands too frosty to work properly and moods as sullen and damp as telephone wires.

January stands beside James at the end of the display, both of them watch the rain pour and the lightning crack over the sky. January clicks her tongue.

“At least it isn’t snow.” she says.

“I’d rather the snow.” James admits, stifles the pang of homesickness.

January gives his shoulder a squeeze and turns, rounds the corner to the kitchen, and James stands in silence. He looks up, startled when the bell rings as the door is pushed open, and who should be standing there? Michael.

He’s mad. James decides.

Any man who would tramp through _this weather_ for a goddamn muffin or cupcake had serious problems.

Utterly mad, and wearing a shirt that has become see through.

He shakes his hair out like a dog, and James can’t help but chuckle to himself at the sight.

“You don’t have to return to the office after this, then?” He asks, and Michael looks up, sweeps his damp hair from his forehead, and he grins, flashes his endless teeth.

“Oh, no. I do.” He glances down at his chest, and shakes his head once, “It wont matter.” James bends down and retrieves a caramel muffin and he goes for a piece of caramel slice, but Michael’s voice stops him.

“No. I want something you made.” He says, presses himself against the glass display, “Your cakes are the nicest ones, if I’m to be honest.”

James looks at him, blankly. Doesn’t know what to say (‘thank you’ is natural, right? He can say that... right?), “Thank you.” He says, gives Michael a genuine smile, “Al-Alright, uh… I made uh… double choc-”

“I’ll have those.” Michael says, before he can finish, and he gives James another huge smile.

“You don’t even--”

“It wont matter. It’ll be nice, whatever it is.”

James shakes his head with a wide, bemused, grin and turns on his heel heads into the kitchen to retrieve the cookies he’d made, (January is still skeptical, wont let him sell them just yet), they’re already in a little white box, James just closes it, and takes it back to the front. He places the paper bag with the muffin inside atop it, and holds it out for Michael, he goes to pay for more than the muffin, but James shakes his head. Only charges for the muffin.

Michael leaves, and the rest of their day is deafeningly quiet. Evidently, no-one else is quite as brave (or stupid) as Michael.

-

January lets him leave at four-thirty. It’s still bucketing down. James has no umbrella. It’s a long walk, too.

He steps out of the shop and he barely hears the door close behind him over the pounding rain. He’s drenched in seconds, and he prepares to run, jogs two blocks before he’s out of breath, soaked and shivering.

“James!”

He stops, glances wildly around, his hair falls into his eyes, but he makes out a figure half-hanging out of a car window. It’s... Michael.

“Come on!” He pushes the door open. James looks back up the street, and then shakes his head once. Jogs over to the black porsche and slips into the leather seat. His shirt sticks to it. And his skin. He shuts the door, and the deafening rain is blocked out, becomes a steady pattering over the metal roof of the car, and Michael is looking at him with an easy smile.

“I uh… my apartment’s downtown.”

“It’s alright, mine isn’t far.”

James swallows.

“You’re drenched! I think a coffee would do you good, don’t you?”

James doesn’t find it in himself to answer, and Michael is already pulling away from the curb, and James’ fingers slip as he scrambles for his seatbelt and he remembers all the times his mother told him not to get into cars with strangers and Michael is hardly a stranger... He’s dry. How is that humanly possible? How could he possibly be dry? He’s wearing different clothes (that big jacket again) and James’ gaze settles on his hands, long fingers curled around the steering wheel, and he can just barely see the end of a tie poking out of the folds in the jacket, and it’s blue. Bright blue. He changed. James decides. He would’ve noticed that tie otherwise and they’re pulling into a driveway (a garage) and James didn’t get a chance to see where exactly Michael had taken him. He’s getting out of the car, and James mindlessly does the same.

“Come on.” Michael places a hand between James’ shoulder blades, leads him up a short staircase, and they’re inside within moments and it’s warm, even if James is dripping all over the plush square of carpet beneath and he feels immensely out of place here. Everything in this house appears wildly new. The floors are shiny, a white-marble look to them, glossy, almost.

It’s so… _sterile_.

There’s a raised dais that leads to a staircase that spirals somewhere up to a second floor and Michael is heading towards what James assumes is the kitchen, to his left there’s a leather couch, curved in an ‘L’ shape, with a television bigger than any James has seen in his entire life bolted to the wall and yeah, he’s got to be a goddamn good lawyer. Michael is back, he’s not wearing the jacket anymore, he slips it around James’ shoulders, leads him to the leather couch, urges him to sit.

“How many sugars?” He asks, and it takes James a moment (he’s looking at that blue tie, it has the cookie monster’s face right in the middle, he thinks it’s a little abstract for a lawyer, but Michael is a little abstract).

“One. Thanks.”

James is left to himself for several moments, shivering lightly in Michael’s jacket. He lifts a hand to his hair, combs it from his face, and it coils and clings to his fingers, and he thinks Michael’s place is cold. It isn’t a home. Homes don’t look like this. He thinks back to his living room, with the couch his father had given him for christmas four years ago, covered with an afghan so that the wine stains weren’t obvious, and the empty beer bottles he has littered around, the discarded articles of clothing, the mismatched socks and the faint wafting scent of old Rexona.

Nothing like this.

Michael’s floors were shiny. How did that work? Didn’t he… _stand_ on these floors?

He’s back, presses the hot coffee into James’ frozen hand, and he takes it with a mumbled, “Thanks.” Because this isn’t his scene. He’s not meant to be here, and Michael falls into the couch beside him, a coffee in his hand too. He’s really not meant to be here. He feels small. He feels insignificant in this big house, and he almost jumps as thunder rumbles somewhere distantly.

“You’re Scottish.”

James blinks. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. He looks over at Michael.

“You’re Irish.”

“German-Irish.” Michael shifts, “You look like you enjoy your job.” He says, around the rim of his coffee mug.

James frowns slightly, “It pays the bills, but…”

“But?”

“It’s not what I’d like to be doing.” He says, he’s almost wrapped around his coffee, he’s freezing.

“What would you like to be doing?”

James doesn’t answer. Because it’s not the sort of thing that you tell someone you just met. Even though… he’s technically known Michael for months.

“I uh…” Then, softly, almost to himself, “I want to be an actor.”

He thinks he hears Michael laugh next to him, and he frowns to himself, “So you always wanted to be a lawyer?”

“No.” Michael answers, almost immediately, “I never did.” He’s setting his coffee down on the cold floor, and he’s reaching for James’ before he has a chance to ask _why_ 3, “Come. You’ll start losing limbs if we don’t get you out of these clothes.” He takes James’ arm, and urges him to stand, James follows him blindly.

Michael leads him to the staircase they’d passed earlier, and they’re going upstairs and there’s nothing on the walls. They’re all bare, and stark white, it looks more like a hotel. No pictures of friends or family framed on the walls. Nothing.

Michael leads him into a room, and carpet greets his sodden shoes, pale carpet, and the bed in the center of the room is pale-coloured too, on a mahogany headboard and James arches a brow, wonders if cream is Michael’s favorite colour, or if he genuinely likes having an impersonal place in which to dwell. The wardrobe is white, too, and James turns, meets his reflection in one of the panels, and he looks a lot like a drowned rat. His eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, his hair is soaked, his shirt is pale and see through, clinging loosely to his chest. His trousers are heavy, wet, only held up by his too-big belt, and he’s bundled in under Michael’s jacket.

“If any of this fits you, I’ll be impressed.” Michael is saying, sifting through shirts for one that might actually fit over James’ small frame.

He shrugs out of the oversized jacket, places it on Michael’s bed, and he straightens from the wardrobe, his gaze catches over James’ chest as he begins to unfasten the buttons of his shirt - James catches him staring;

“What?”

Michael swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing, “You’re soaked.” His voice sounds… rougher than usual. Like ice water on gravel.

“I’m aware of that.” James says, and his voice shakes.

Michael’s eyes are lingering on his trembling hands, so he unbuttons the third button of his shirt, and he moves over, as if to help James, moves his wet hands out of the way, replaces them with his own and James’ breath comes out shaking, and he makes the mistake of looking up, again, he meets those bluegreengrey eyes and decides they’re _definitely_ blue and Michael is close, Michael is so close and then - his lips are rough.

Oh, _God_. His _lips_.

It begins hesitantly, as if they’re both unsure - the kiss is ghostly, barely there at all, a gentle brush of lips, and then James almost melts into him, because he’s warm, and he’s sure he’s getting the poor bloke drenched, pressing his chest flush against Michael’s and he doesn’t entirely mind. Their kiss isn’t gentle anymore, more teeth and bites than lips and tongue. Michael’s hands give up on James’ sodden shirt and reach for his trousers instead. He pulls the belt free with an easy flick of his wrist, and James’ soaked trousers fall from around his waist, with help from Michael.

Then, he’s being pushed onto the bed, chest-first, he tries to rise up, but Michael is there, his chest against James’ back, and his hands are roaming, greedy, over James’ pale thighs, and soaked shirt like a man starved. He pushes the wet material up, exposes James’ icy, damp skin, and he shivers.

“If this isn’t what you want..” Michael is hissing in his ear, his hips grinding sharply down against James from behind, “You need to tell me to stop _now_.”

James doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t think he has words left in him.

“Well?” Michael urges, puncturing the one-word sentence with his hips.

“Don’t stop.” James whispers.

Michael’s hands slide up his sides, push his shirt up to his shoulders, and he bites down on that sliver of exposed skin on the side of James’ neck, and he makes a positively _pitiful_ sound, and then his briefs are being shoved down, and Michael is peppering gentle kisses over the blossoming bruise on the crook of James’ neck, and his arms are shaking, holding the both of them up. He feels Michael’s excitement pressing into the back of his thigh already hard and straining against his slacks, and James knows he’s well on the way.

Then Michael pushes him forward, he pitches face-first into the sheets, his arms give out, and he hears a drawer being tugged open with impatience, something being drawn from it, and then something cold and wet brushes over James’ arse, and he tenses, hands turning into fists in the sheets, and he hears a light laugh behind him and he resists the urge to throw a punch.

“You’ve never done this before, James?” Michael is asking, his hand brushes over the cleft of James’ ass.

“No, I… I have but I’ve…”

“Don’t lie.” Michael’s voice is soft, and James thinks he might be kind of a jerk in bed, “I’ll be gentle.”

Then something is pushing into him, long and thin, and it doesn’t hurt. It’s… odd. Not unpleasant, somewhat uncomfortable, but Michael’s other hand reaches around him, finds his cock, and he strokes James through it, until that intrusion falls to the back of his mind. Then Michael is pulling out, pushing in with two fingers, and James squirms at that, buries his face in the sheets, trying to block out the chucking he can hear from Michael. Tries to pretend it isn’t hurting, because Michael isn’t helping at all. But his fingers twist, bend and _oh fuck_.

James’ vision goes white, he jerks back, his hips snap back on Michael’s hand, and a gasp leaps past his lips before he can stop it, and Michael is there whispering filthy nothings in his ear, ‘You like that?’, and ‘More?’ and James is rendered incoherent. The side of his face pressed to the sheets, his skin flushed and glowing red, and Michael’s grin is cheeky and patronizing and James would probably hate him if he wasn’t so stupidly attractive and charming kind and if his fingers weren’t… where they were.

He brushes that spot another two times, and both times James’ hips snap back, and he gasps, whimpers and bites back a moan each time. Then, Michael’s fingers are retreating, and James makes this breathless noise at the loss.

“Shh.” Is the only response he gets, and he doesn’t want to think about the various people Michael has probably brought here, the various people whom he’s probably treated like this, too. He’s lost in the pleasure, curious as to what exactly Michael had touched inside him. He’d fucked guys, yes. But he was normally the one _doing_ the fucking, and he’d fucked his fair share of girls, too. He’d… never even fantasized about this before. Yet here he was, flushed, breathless and open. Thighs spread wide while Michael unzips his trousers and pours lube over James’ puckered hole and he’s pressing insistently into James again, but it’s no finger, and it burns.

He shifts, and James feels as if he’s being split open. He pushes up onto his elbows, his breath comes out ragged and short, and he hides his pain, keeps his head bowed, but he feels a hand crawl up the length of his spine, up the stairs of his vertebrae, and tangle into the hair at the base of his neck, forcing his head up. Michael presses a warm kiss to his flushed cheek, and the pain keeps going, and James thinks Michael’s a snake. He’s got to be. His cock is huge. _Huge_. He has no breath left, no voice left, and all that comes from him are strangled half-sound-half-breaths.

“You feel divine.” Michael murmurs, “Little bakery boy, eh? Who would have thought.”

James’ head falls back down when Michael’s hand loosens into his hair, and he has the common sense not to move, at least. Waits for James to adjust to his intrusion. It’s James that begins to move, rocks back hesitantly on Michael, and then those slender hands wrap around his narrow hips, and begin to guide him. Their pace begins slow, Michael is panting above him, desperate to increase their pace, and he is. Slowly, but surely, until the lewd sounds of skin-slapping-skin become louder, and the headboard of Michael’s bed rocks back to slam into the wall with each thrust, and the pain quickly becomes engulfed by pleasure, flushed to the back of James’ mind.

He doesn’t trust his voice, but his lips part, and a meaningless mantra tumbles from his lips with each thrust from Michael, so he sounds something like “Ah, ah, oh, anh, ah, ah, ah, _ah!”_

Michael’s hand snakes up from his hips, curves around his shoulder uses him as leverage to deepen his thrusts until he’s hitting that place inside James with each harsh thrust and he’s grunting, James can hear him, and he’s struggling to think straight, because he wants to see more than the pale sheets, he struggles to turn, and Michael sees what he wants, and flips him, all without pulling out. His hands dive for James’ sides again, and he’s quite literally fucking the smaller man into the mattress.

James barely manages to bring his arm up, winds it around the back of Michael’s neck, pulls him in for another kiss, it’s open-mouthed, messy, and Michael’s stubble is rough against his skin, and he nips at James’ bottom lip. He finds it completely unfair that Michael remains still… fully clothed while he’s laid bare, but he couldn’t protest even if he wanted to.

“How does it feel?” He asks, and when James doesn’t answer, he urges him on with a breathless, “Hmm?”

“G-Good - oh _fuck_ \--..” James tilts his head back as he feels that coil beginning to tighten in the pit of his stomach, he reaches down, feels blindly for his cock and strokes himself, but Michael grabs his wrist, pins it to the mattress beside James’ head, stops him entirely.

“No. You’ll come like this. _From_ this.”

James can’t, he needs more and Michael’s cock is filling him up so completely, and then he’s coming before he quite realizes, free hand flying to Michael’s shoulder, nails biting into that white shirt as his come paints his bare stomach, and onto the crumpled material of his wrinkled shirt, and then Michael is one step behind him, coming inside him, burning hot, so hot it tingles and James feels it filling him, flooding through him, and they both come down from their high, Michael falls atop James, releases his hand, his breath comes out in gusts beside James’ hair, his arms wind around Michael’s broad shoulders, he feels the stupid cookie monster tie pressing into his sweat-covered, damp and come-streaked skin, and knows Michael probably wont be able to wear it again, and he doesn’t entirely mind that.

Their silence draws out, and James untangles his legs from around Michael’s waist, he breathes a sigh, he’s tired. So _tired_.

“I feel like we skipped a step.” He mumbles, half conscious, “Normally it takes a date, maybe two… Some dinner. You know…”

He hears Michael rumble a laugh somewhere above him. “I wasn’t prepared to wait that long, thank you.” His hips shift, and his softening cock slips from James, and his breath hitches at the loss, but he relaxes, and there’s a dull ache in his lower abdomen now. He frowns to himself.

“Sleep here.” Michael mutters, pushes up off James, “I’m keen on a pancake breakfast.” He grins, and it’s that leer that’s predatory and James shoves at his arm, he’s grinning, too. “You can make pancakes, right?”

“You can’t exploit me for this.” He adds, and there’s another laugh from Michael, who begins loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, before long, they’re under the covers, and James is almost completely warm. Michael’s arms wind around his middle, and he drifts off into a dreamless sleep. Overnight, the rain clears, only to be replaced by snow.

James isn’t too keen on going in to work anymore.


	2. ...is through his stomach

Work, work work.

Nothing is nearly as awful as work. In fact, Michael thinks the only thing worse than work is bad weather. Especially on a work day (especially on a Monday). Today, he had work, it was pouring with rain and it was a Monday.

_Fantastic._

He was having one of those days where you wake up and just sort of stare at the ceiling and wait for it to crash down on you so that you never, _never_ need to get out of bed ever again.

Unfortunately, his ceiling remained very much the intact slab of gip-rock that it was, mocking him from it’s pale heights. He stares at the ceiling for another two minutes before he drags himself to the edge of his bed. Seven thirty-eight in the morning. Too goddamn early to be alive. It’s cold above the sheets, and he’s dressed in a pair of black Calvin Klein’s, and not much else. The promise of a steaming hot shower is all that drags him from his bed, he shuffles into the bathroom, showers, shaves (manages to avoid cuts, somehow, it’s shocking, really) resists the overwhelming urge to jack off there and then, and wraps a towel around his waist. Pads out to his bedroom, and rifles around in his wardrobe for about two seconds before he manages to throw a presentable-looking outfit together.

Simple. A crisp-white shirt (that he hopes isn’t obviously un-ironed), grey slacks and a matching jacket. He tugs out an off-blue and hideous tie, and throws it on without a second thought. At least it isn’t one of his Muppet ties.

He skips breakfast, makes himself a coffee and realizes his milk is well past it’s use-by date a second too late and throws it away again. He knows without even stepping outside that today just wont be his day.

-

It isn’t his day at all, really. He’s low on petrol, and ends up fifteen minutes late to work while he fills it. He struggles to stay awake at his desk, and the new ‘office bitch’ as Kevin has affectionately named him - Caleb - fails to get the right coffee for him. (he wants two pumps and a goddamn splash of hazelnut, a _splash_ ).

He’s relieved when his lunch break comes.

See, Kevin’s girlfriend, January, owns this bakery about a street away from where they work. It’s called the _‘Te Seduire Bakery’_ \- Kevin says it means ‘Win Your Heart Bakery’ which Michael thinks is a bit of an overstep. They’re only cakes. Cakes never touched that special of a place within him, unless his tongue and stomach counted. He found January’s cakes to be acceptable at best. But her specialty was easily the caramel muffins, which she knew Michael favored. He didn’t even need to ask anymore, she just knew.

Michael had always found her attractive, in fact - he’d had his eye on her until he’d seen her in Bacon’s office, with a smile far too wide to be thought of as innocent. He didn’t mind, though. It wasn’t as if he had the slim pickings when it came to women.

He walks through the rain, and uses his briefcase as a makeshift umbrella for the time being. His sleep-addled state had depraved him of the decent idea of grabbing an umbrella, and now his suit is getting wet. Which Michael honestly doesn’t mind. He just knows his boss probably will. Mr. Vaughn is especially mindful of these things, especially when it came to Michael. He doesn’t appreciate that.

He makes it to the bakery soon enough, and that familiar little bell tinkles away as he pushes the door open, and he looks up, ready to greet January again, but she’s not alone behind the counter (and no, it’s not that weird blonde kid who looks a lot like he could be her son), she’s with some absolutely stricken boy. Yes. _Boy_. Because that’s what he looks like, and as Michael gets closer, he seems to look even younger, and his eyes seem to slide out of focus, and bulge as Michael takes off his sunglasses and slips them into the pocket of his jacket.

He’s got brown hair - floppy brown hair that sort of falls into these brilliant baby blue eyes that are so goddamn bright they almost glow. His cheeks look a fire-engine red, and his lips. Michael’s gaze seems to zero in on them, and immediately his mind wants to kiss, mark, lick, _bite_.

Then there’s a pale pink tongue darting out, wetting them, and Michael clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw flexes, and he’s biting down on his fucking lip. Michael is gone. Michael is dead. Michael is a spirit. Michael’s going to hell. Michael doesn’t know how he’s still standing here. A million images flit through his mind, of fucking the boy right here over this counter in front of god and everyone, but he wont.

He’s a gentleman. God. How _dare_ you think of him that way.

January says something to the poor boy and then looks at Michael.

“Good morning!” She says, and she’s already punching in his price into the register, “What will it be with your muffin today?”

“Well...” Michael glances at the display before him, tries to block the stupid kid out, because he wants to fuck him six ways to Sunday and it’s all he can think about right now and there’s a wonderful iced cupcake positioned right in front of the kid’s crotch. That’ll do.

“I think an iced cupcake would be perfect.” He looks at January again, and gives her a smile - he’s mindful of the amount of teeth he flashes, and she nods.

“James, love. Would you grab those for me?”

The boy doesn’t move. James. Michael turns his name around in his head, thinks it over, wants to taste it on his tongue, and looks at James when he doesn’t respond.

“James?” January half-turns to him.

“I - sorry, yes yes… What?”

His voice suits him. He’s Scottish, and his accent is remarkably strong, and his voice is deep - deeper than what suits him, but Michael rather likes it. If any race of blokes could give the Irish a run for their money, it would definitely be the Scotts. He smirks lightly to himself.

“A caramel muffin and an iced cupcake.” January says, slower, as if James had misheard.

The poor boy surges to snatch up the tongs and hurries to retrieve Michael’s orders, and Michael is a little forlorn that he doesn’t get to see that perfectly-framed behind with trousers stretched tight over it as he bends down, sadly. But he leans against the glass display nonetheless, in a useless attempt to try to see, but James straightens up again.

“Er…” His gaze meets Michael’s, and he tries to smile, as if that would help the poor boy speak.

“What… what flavor did you want?”

“Which would you recommend?” Michael asks, and James’ eyes seem to go impossibly wide, and they are so, _so_ , blue. James seems to gape for a few moments, like a lost puppy or a fish out of water.

“Uh… the um… the vanilla is always… nice.”

Michael nods once, and straightens up, “Vanilla then.”

“Alright.”

He hurries to retrieve it, and Michael, steps back behind the cashier, his gaze remains steadily following James’ movements, and James hands a brown bag to January, whom then hands it to Michael. He takes it, pays, and his gaze remains on the poor boy who positively shrinks away from him, and it takes all he has not to flash a cheshire-cat smile at the poor thing, he’d probably scare him right off for good and that’s honestly the last thing he wants.

“Keep the change.” He gives January a half-wink, and digs his sunglasses out of his pockets and casts another fleeting glance at James who looks petrified and slides them over the bridge of his nose, and it’s only then that James manages to look away from him. He strides toward the door and manages to get a rather wonderful look at the boy’s ass as he leaves, which is framed by the lovely little ties of that apron he’s wearing and Michael sets off down the street with a wide grin that earns him several double-takes from those he passes.

_-_

Back in the office, Kevin comes past with some files Michael needs to… file? He doesn’t know, he’s not actually listening to the other blokes monogamous tone, he barely ever does.

“I just got back from January’s bakery.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looks idly interested.

Michael crosses his legs, “Yeah, she was training some kid at the register.”

“Right, yeah, she mentioned something about that.” Kevin goes back to the file in his hands. He glances up after a moment, “Why?”

Michael shakes his head, “No, no. No reason.”

“Alright.” Kevin closes the file, and places it on the edge of his desk, “On my desk by tomorrow morning.”

He leaves, and Michael sits in silence for several long moments before he removes the iced cupcake from the brown bag. He eats the frosted heart first.

-

He doesn’t sleep well.

He has an odd dream at first, not much of it is clear, but a pair of piercing blue eyes definitely are, and a sweat-slicked back pressed against his chest, and little wet moans tipping from cherried lips, and the curve of a warm fleshy hip under his calloused hand almost _feels_ real, but he wakes, in a sweat and with an aching hard-on that puts his teenage self to shame.

He doesn’t even think twice, shoves a hand down past his suddenly scratchy sheets and down beneath the warm waistband of his boxers and there it is. His head falls back against the pillow, mouth going slack as he grips himself tightly, his pace begins leisurely, and he recalls his dream, the soft, warm skin beneath his touch, and the parted, sweaty lips and those _sounds_. He’s speeding up already, his hips bucking into his hand, and bitten-off grunts pass his lips, and then he’s coming. It’s a quick, hot, _rush_ that shudders through him at the mere thought of a pair of bright, baby blue eyes.

It’s January’s bakery boy - James. God, what is _wrong_ with him? His hand releases his flagging cock, dripping with cooling seed, and he exhales. He’s nearly thirty-five, not fifteen - good God. He sits up, peels back the sheets and looks blankly down at the wet patch in his briefs, sliding his hand free, doubtfully.

Clubs. He needs to visit some clubs. He’s likely too old for this shit, but he needs to get laid. Badly. And soon.

Michael has another shower and finds a pair of clean briefs before he returns to bed, sleep eludes him for some time, but eventually he succumbs to his fatigue.

-

The next day goes far better than the last. Despite the dark rings under his eyes from his late night, he manages well enough. His milk tastes like milk, and his coffee works it’s magic, and he arrives at the office on time. He delivers the account fraud file to Kevin at ten minutes past eleven, and goes on his break at eleven-thirty.

He arrives at the bakery a few minutes early (he’s oddly excited for some reason) and the wafting and cozy scent of warm bread on a cold day tingles his senses and James is in there. Evidently on his own. He puts down what looks like an icing pipe-thing - Michael doesn’t know what they’re called, but they look good in his tiny hands - and moves over to the cashier to serve him. He’s wearing a name-tag today, it has his name on it in pink cursive, and Michael bites back his grin.

He offers James a gentle smile when he looks up, almost drowns in those cerulean blue eyes, he’s greeted by a mortifying moment of deja vu from his dream, and resists the urge to violate countless health-codes (and laws), as he removes his wallet from his slacks.

“Caramel muffin, please.”

James doesn’t answer him, he merely nods, ducks his head, and steels back to retrieve the pastry, and Michael tries again to steal a glance at that plump behind, but James doesn’t need to bend down to retrieve anything yet.

 _Yet_.

Michael’s gaze drifts from James to the pipe he’d set down, and the frosted cupcake that settles upon the white breadboard. He idly wonders if James bakes these from scratch - he knows January bakes the vast majority of their cupcakes (including Michael’s beloved caramel muffins), does James?

“Anything else?”

Michael looks back at James, he still looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“Yes. I’ll have chocolate today.” He points to one of the cupcakes closer to James, he’ll need to bend down to retrieve it, Michael hides his smirk, “The vanilla was superb. You don’t make these, do you?”

Surely enough, James moves back behind the display and leans down to retrieve the cupcake, and Michael feels a lot like a creepy old bloke checking out a fine specimen far too young for him, but he doesn’t know how this place isn’t swamped with men just like him, eager for a little taste of his pretty young boy with flour he doesn’t notice brushed over his cheek.

“I decorate them.” James says, into the display, “I don’t… I don’t bake them.” He slips the cupcake into the paper bag and hands it to Michael.

“Ah.” James finally looks up as their fingers barely brush, and Michael feels as if he’s been plunged into the pristine pacific and devoured by sharks. James seems to struggle for words, and Michael’s other hand closes around the leather wallet in his pocket as he waits for James to charge, part of him thinks the poor boy’s going to forget to ask entirely, and Michael desperately hopes this little lost act isn’t actually an act at all and that James is literally this disoriented simply because of Michael’s presence.

Yes, yes, very vain of him. Spare him the talk, if he wasn’t going to hell already, James’ presence in his life had made that certain.

“Eight… um… eight fifty.”

Michael withdraws his wallet and plucks out a pair of fivers and presses them snugly into the palm of James’ hand. “Keep the change.” He stops himself from winking, because that will only really make things worse.

“So, you’re new here?”

There’s a brief pause, James looks as if he’s surprised that Michael is instigating brief conversation. He slips his wallet back into his pocket.

“Y-Yeah…”

He’s making that face again, like a frightened… Michael wants to say mouse, but it’s not exactly an endearing term, is it? A kitten? Puppy? Bear cub? He briefly runs through other adorable baby animals, before he realizes he might be staring.

“I’m sure you’re doing wonderful so far.” Because if his service to Michael was anything to go from, he was. He was doing splendidly, even if he was wearing too many articles of clothing - it wasn’t hard to fix! “You shouldn’t look so terrified!” and he does wink, takes his bag, and leaves with a final wave and he thinks he might have broken James.

January probably wouldn’t forgive him.

He passes her on his way out, but she looks somewhat frustrated, with two bags hanging off the crook of her left shoulder and her phone in hand, Michael doesn’t stop her for a hello, he keeps walking, skirting about her carefully - she could shoot daggers with her eyes when she wanted to - Lord, if looks could kill, Miss Jones would be the world’s most wanted.

He makes it back to the office, and settles behind his desk for lunch, logging into youtube before he even realizes it and he’s watching some rabbit video. It’s really not that exciting, but the rabbits are making his stomach tighten for some odd, odd reason.

Kevin glances into his office as he passes, and pauses at the door.

“Board meeting at four, you’re coming, aren’t you?”

He glances away from the monitor, “Of course.”

“Oh and - January said your presence nearly made her new worker-beetle explode.”

Michael remains impassive, “Tell her it isn’t my fault he’s still prepubescent.”

Bacon grins, and leaves.

That’s a lie, he’s smiling from ear-to-ear on the inside and these adorable animal videos really aren’t helping. He quits the browser, and settles to people-watching out the window of his fourth-floor office until the end of his lunch break.

-

The board meeting goes overtime (as always) and Michael returns home at nine with take-away that he’s honestly not feeling up for. He eats half, and shoves the rest into his refrigerator. His tiled floors are icy under his feet and he needs to remember to set the heating for tomorrow if he doesn’t want more days like this.

He’s not fond of this house. He wouldn’t have it at all if he didn’t need to cover so many in-calls from clients. A professional-looking home wasn’t in his job description at all, but evidently if you had coffee-stained rugs and odd socks shoved between couch-seats you weren’t considered a responsible and serious lawyer. Which Michael absolutely was. Thank you.

He showers and goes to bed, he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

-

The rain hasn’t stopped all week, and Michael’s beginning to think some deity up there wants him to drown on his way to work, his car would be his fish tank, and he would be the marine animal that is far too big for his enclosure. The one the little kids point and giggle at. It’s usually the manta ray sprawled over the glass display. He wouldn’t mind that, now that he thinks about it - it’d be a nice, relaxing, life. Very much unlike his own.

He’s drawn from his musings about giant sting rays when Kevin passes by his office, and mumbles something unintelligible, but Michael manages to catch ‘coffee’, ‘Caleb’ and ‘hungry’, which is all that’s important. He hopes the three aren’t exactly related, and glances at the time - his break starts in two and he’s not going to spend it behind his desk again.

He passes Caleb as he leaves, and he actually does have a coffee for Michael (and for Kevin) and Michael just waves him off. Kevin will have his coffee and then some if the opportunity is placed before him and God knows that when that man doesn’t get his coffee… heaven would set fire.

Along with Michael’s desk. Possibly the entire office.

He hopefully pushes the glass door to the bakery open, and he’s evidently crestfallen when it’s January standing behind the counter, and not James. A glance to his left informs him the boy is… icing. Again. Michael slows his steps to watch, admires James’ precise handiwork, before he turns to January. That obnoxious blonde boy is standing to the right with a group of rowdy boys, Michael is grateful that he’s given the chance to avoid him.

“The usual, thanks.” He says, digs his wallet out of his pocket.

“Caramel muffin and an iced cupcake, correct?” She asks, and flashes a dazzling smile.

“You know me too well.” he grins as she retrieves his pastries.

“Busy day up at the office, then?” She asks.

“Relatively. Kevin’s treading water, I don’t think you’ll be able to fit that little visit in tonight.”

She sighs, “Shame.” She places the bag upon the counter between them, “Well then, Fassbender - do tell him I say hello, wont you?”

“Will do.” Michael steals a glance at James, who is actually watching him over his shoulder, and the icing is pouring steadily from the pipe and onto the top of the cupcake and Michael wonders if he realizes he’s still squeezing it. He looks away when their eyes meet, and there’s icing all over his left hand.

Michael chuckles to himself, and ignores January’s mystified look as he pays his little bill. He leaves after that, and doesn’t look back at James’ window. Though, for some reason, the mental image of the white icing pouring over James’ pale skin wont leave his mind.

-

 _James_ wont leave his mind.

He’s watching the game with a cold bottle of Guinness, and he tugs a pillow into his left side, and for some reason his mind supplies him with an image of James curled up with him. It pisses him off more than anything else and he throws the pillow across the room, because Michael doesn’t cuddle. _Ever_.

But he’d be lying if he said he hated the thought of cuddling James.

James just seems like the sort of person you want to engulf and pepper with kisses and drown in hugs and fuck into mattresses. Michael can’t help that. It’s the lips. It has to be. Or the eyes. Or that smile. Or that flush that blankets his cheeks. Or the stupid way his hair falls.

Oh, God. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He needs… he needs…

_A fuck._

_Exactly._

That’s _absolutely_ what he needs. He’s got his weekend planned out. Ready to go. He just needs to _get there._

That’s his last coherent thought for the evening. He has one too many beers and falls asleep on the couch.

-

He wakes up late, with a sore neck and swears his way up to the shower and into his cleanest suit. He misses breakfast, and he’s angry all morning. It’s a general rule of thumb - Michael doesn’t get breakfast, Michael turns into Hulk.

-

He’s glad it’s Thursday. Partly because it’s Kevin’s day off, but mainly because it means he’s only got one more day until the weekend. He’s doing work - for once - and it’s making time fly past. He leaves at eleven thirty, and heads off to get lunch.

He arrives at the bakery around twelve, and James is the one standing at the cashier this time, the loud blonde boy is hovering at the other end of the display, Michael thinks if he’s trying to be discrete, he’s failing horribly.

“Let me guess, a caramel muffin?”

Michael glances up, and James is smiling at him. That nearly makes him double-take, he finds himself wondering where James’ sudden confidence came from. He’d been so twitchy and quiet the last few times. It was a welcome improvement, definitely. Even if the stuttering-shy thing suited him more than it should and made Michael want to do unspeakable things to him.

“I’m getting predictable.” Michael says, slips off his sunglasses and gives James a smile in return, and the boy falters at that, Michael hides his little triumph.

“I’d call it dependable.” James says, after a moment, and Michael wonders if he’s woken up on the right side of his bed this morning, for the first time in… ever. “You could try something else, you know. We’ve got all kinds of things here.”

Michael turns his gaze to the glass display, and the blonde boy at the other end of the display is so clearly watching them. He idly wonders why (has he a crush on James? Oddly enough, that thought turns his stomach horribly, because he’s far too young and… and blonde for James. Since when is that a reason _not_ to date someone?)

“Surprise me.” Michael says after a moment, “Give me something you made.” He adds, because there’s something oddly wonderful that comes with the thought of eating something James baked. James retrieves a cupcake from the icing bench, presumably the one he’s just finished and bags it for Michael to take and he can’t help but feel a little gleeful at that.

James charges, and then says, “Have a nice day, sir.”

_Sir._

Michael likes the way he says that, but still; “Michael.” He smiles, “I’d rather be Michael to you than ‘Caramel Muffin’.” But he doesn’t mind _sir_ at all.

“I’m James.” and he actually looks a little more at ease as he makes a strange gesture that he tries to pass off as a handshake, Michael takes his hand - impossibly warm - and shakes once. His hands are smooth, soft against Michael’s large, calloused and ink-stained ones.

“Until tomorrow.” He says, uses it to reluctantly release James’ hand from his own, and he heads out into the cold, and the water pelts down to greet him from the sky and he doesn’t want to go back to the office. He’d much rather work in a warm, cozy environment that smells of baking bread.

Wait…

-

It’s freezing on Friday. Michael almost calls in sick. Because it’s another one of those days when you just want the ceiling to cave in and you’re legitimately pissed off when it doesn’t. He wonders why he has those so often that they don’t even surprise him anymore.

But he lugs himself out of bed, and dresses in irrationally warm clothing, and his jacket looks incredibly Soviet, but it’s fucking warm so he doesn’t care. He even grabs a scarf before he heads out.

The board of directors are in office for the upcoming week, and it means plenty of fake smiles and laughter during the day, and feeble attempts at drowning himself in beer at night. Kevin wants him to show a pair of them around the city on Wednesday, and Michael knows that’s going to be a nightmare. He doesn’t know places to take overweight old men. But now that he thinks about it, they’ll enjoy the bakery.

It’s becoming slowly harder and harder to remain focussed on his work when blue eyes and pale skin invade his thoughts and it’s just so pathetic. James didn’t even know his name until a day ago. How would the poor bird react if he knew he’d been the source of countless wet dreams? Michael hates himself.

He goes into the bakery, and James is there to serve him, and he tries to praise the other man’s abilities, but he doesn’t think James fully understands it, so he lets it go. Wonders if he generally has a low opinion of himself or if he’s just being polite.

James has given him a gingerbread man instead of a cupcake - and the biscuit tastes fantastic. He genuinely hopes James baked it.

-

His weekend is about as good as it could be. He goes to a downtown club on Saturday night and brings home a pretty girl (incidentally, she has piercing blue eyes, dark hair and pale skin), he fucks her with his eyes closed, and when he wakes at midday, she’s gone, and he’s still hard. He jerks off in the shower (he tries to picture her, full breasted and silk-haired, but she quickly warps into James and he comes before he’s ready and... he feels satisfied).

He has a hangover that could slay a walrus, but he manages to look presentable enough to meet his sister for coffee before he returns home and makes dinner. He doesn’t want to go into work at all tomorrow.

-

The best part of his Monday is seeing James.

Yes, Michael does hate himself even more.

-

On Tuesday, that obnoxious blonde boy serves him, and asks him some really strange questions about brown sugar.

-

Wednesday comes and Michael brings the board members down to the bakery with him, and they seem a little too pleased with James and his heavenly baking. Michael tells them of James’ kitchen abilities and they leave with large smiles and laughter and that’s all Michael can really ask for.

-

His days dissolve into weeks and everything is turning out to be so very sullen and colourless and James quickly becomes his only point of coloured clarity and evidently his fascination with the other man hasn’t gone unnoticed by those around him.

It’s Kevin that brings his feeble attempts to light.

“It’s not January anymore, is it?”

“What?” Michael looks up from his desk, and Kevin is leaning against the doorway.

“You’re really fond of that bakery. I’m really hoping January isn’t what’s dragging you back day in and day out.”

“It’s not.” He tries to dismiss it.

“You never used to go daily. A few times a week, yeah, but not daily.”

“Maybe she’s improved.” He doesn’t look up, he’s suddenly really, really interested in the case file open on his desk.

“It’s the kid, isn’t it?”

“What kid?” Michael looks up with a frown.

“That one she was training the other week. Oh, Michael!” He’s smiling, and it highlights his cheekbones in a way that Michael really hates.

“What are you talking about?” He tries to wave it off, but god, Kevin is relentless.

“You want to fuck the assistant, don’t you?”

“What?!”

“What’s his name - shit, she’s told me this… James! James! You want to fuck James!”

“Kevin, keep your voice down.”

“You keep going back because you want in his pants!”

“Kevin, please shut up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to fuck him? I’ll get January to lure him into--”

“Shut up!” Michael is out of his chair, he tugs Kevin into the office by the shoulder of his suit and closes the door after them. “I don’t need your help on this and I’d really like it if you could keep this to yourself, alright?”

“January did tell me that he gets excited when you come in at midday.” Kevin adds.

“What - … really?” Michael half-smiles, before he catches himself, “You’ve already talked to her about this?”

“No. She just mentioned that he likes serving you.”

“Oh. Right.” He doesn’t know why this pleases him so much and it’s really actually starting to freak him out, “Well. Don’t worry about it, alright? I don’t actually want to… want to fuck him. He just makes good cupcakes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kevin opens the door, “You know the saying though, right? What was it? The best way to a man’s heart was through his… his uh…”

“His stomach.” Michael finishes.

Kevin gives him a wistful grin and then vanishes around the corner. Michael stands in the doorway for a solid ten minutes before he manages to will himself to move.

-

James gives him a box of gingerbread cookies on Friday. For free.

Michael doesn’t eat them until he gets home, and when he opens the box he’s presented with one that looks strikingly similar to an oddly shaped male appendage. He examines it closely, and wonders if it was purely coincidental. He can see where the limbs of the gingerbread man had fallen off, and he doubts that James would give him a penis cookie. Really. Regardless, he eats this one last.

-

Michael goes to another club on Saturday night, but he burns out and comes home alone with a headache and a stomach full of vodka. Sunday morning is spent bent over the toilet as he empties his stomach of said vodka and swears he’ll never drink again, but then he has a beer later that night.

-

“So I went down to the bakery this morning.” Kevin says, as Michael drops the thick case file on his desk, completed - finally.

Michael says nothing, just looks at him.

“He looks like a toddler.”

“What?”

“James. He looked as if he was about to have a heart attack, and he kept stumbling over things.” Kevin takes the file and opens it to the first page.

“No offense, Bacon, but you give a sort of… terrifying first impression.”

“What?” It’s Kevin’s turn to look confused.

“Just being honest.” Michael holds up his hands, and backs out of the office, while Kevin goes back to the file with a sharp shake of his head.

Michael gets to the bakery a little later than usual, he nearly decided against going, he has a lot of work to get through, but he thinks he’d likely set himself on fire if he didn’t have a little break. The moment he sees James he’s happy with the decision he’s made.

“Afternoon.” He greets as he reaches the counter, and James already has a small white box and brown paper bag out for him, ready. Michael’s stomach does something odd at that thought.

“Raspberry and white chocolate cookies.” James explains, tapping the box with a finger, “They’re not fresh, but they’re quite nice anyway.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Michael holds out his money, but James doesn’t take it.

“It’s on me.”

Michael’s jaw clenches for a moment, because he’d feel awful if he didn’t pay. He shrugs, and slips the notes into the tip jar instead. He figures James’ wages can’t be all that fantastic.

James is looking at the offending jar with slitted eyes and it makes Michael grin. He remembers the gingerbread cookies, “Those… biscuits you gave me. They were wonderful.” He remembers the penis cookie, “Interesting. But wonderful!”

James blinks at him owlishly, “A-ah… Thank you.”

Michael takes James’ box and his muffin and leaves. More than eager to try these cookies, if the gingerbread men were anything to go from, these would be even more delicious.

-

Michael’s dreams are too goddamn vivid for his own good.

He’s got James bent over his kitchen island, and he’s wearing nothing but that white apron (ridiculous name-tag and all). Michael is fucking him so hard that James’ thighs are digging into the bench top, and his fingers are curled around the edge of the island, he’s pushing himself back to meet each of Michael’s thrusts, and these broken, _wonderful_ , sobs are pouring from his cherried lips. His mouth is wide open, wet and red, and he’s flushed. His cheeks are blazing, and a sheen of sweat covers his back. Michael’s hands are anchored so firmly into his hips they must be bruising, but James is so far gone that he doesn’t notice. He feels tight and wonderful and hot, and Michael is getting close, and he can feel that coil at the base of his spine, and his stomach tightens and -

He wakes up, and he’s so hard that it almost hurts and he jerks off twice before his body decides it’s time to sleep again. Even then, he lies there for almost an hour, just… thinking.

-

“Fucked him yet?”

“Fuck off, Bacon.”

-

James even looks tired that day, there are dark rings under his eyes and he jumps when the little bell peals to signal Michael’s entrance into the bakery (Michael actually wonders if he’s hung over, but he can’t see James drinking, such an innocent face just didn’t match up with a situation like that).

He holds out Michael’s caramel muffin for him as he reaches the cashier, and a small white box for him to take. Michael does.

“Did you make this?” He asks, lifting the box a little, and James nods in return with a little smile and Michael’s dream comes back to him in a violent flash (James’ spine arches and he rears up, pressing his back flush against Michael’s chest, whimpers and sobs of pleasure bubble past his lips and Michael bites down on his clavicle so hard he nearly tastes blood).

...he returns the smile, briefly.

“I’m late for a meeting.” He says, and that’s a lie - there is no actual meeting. He just needs to get out because his slacks feel too tight all of a sudden. “But thank you, James.”

Before James can protest, he slaps down a hefty handful of coins onto the counter and turns on his heel. Honestly, his job pays him more than he needs. It’s nothing for him to give away.

As he leaves, he lifts the lid on the small box James had given him, and it’s just one cupcake. Just one. Iced with white and blue with a bright ‘M’ pressed into the center, and he blinks at it idly. James had definitely made this. No doubt about it. But not only that, he’s made it especially _for_ Michael.

That makes something in his stomach curl pleasantly.

-

If it counts - Michael thinks he loves the cupcake more than he loves his mother.

-

The weather is progressively getting worse and worse and Michael is almost afraid to leave the safety of his home on Wednesday.

He makes it to work alive, if somewhat windswept, and avoids Kevin until his lunch break. He heads out at quarter to twelve, and makes it to the bakery, the thunder is drowned out under the gentle ringing of the little bell as he pushes the door open, and James is standing behind the counter, blue eyes only for Michael with a white box tied off with a curled, ruby ribbon before him. These cakes are becoming less and less of a surprise and more of a pleasant addition to his day. He idly wonders what he’s done to earn James’ attention like this. He doesn’t do this for any other customers, does he?

That thought sparks something alight inside Michael. But he tells himself it’s _not_ envy.

They exchange idle small-talk, and thunder rumbles again outside, and the both of them glance out of the bakery windows at the impending, grey clouds.

Michael looks back at James in time to see the younger’s nose wrinkle.

“Not fond of rain?” He asks, the corner of his lip curls in a slight smile.

“Not when I have to walk home in it.” James says, distaste evident in his voice, he looks away form the window and shifts where he stands, and Michael’s dreams threaten to resurface as James glances up at him again, his head still tilted down.

Michael laughs lightly, “On that note, I should run.” Lightning flashes outside, “Afternoon, James!” He gives a half-hearted wave, and heads out into the chaotic weather.

-

Michael sits at the wheel, stuck in traffic.

Kevin had let him off early to finish off a case study, granted - Michael had bribed him with one of James’ gorgeous red velvet cupcakes in order to sway him, but it had worked wonders - like magic. It’s taken him half an hour to get down one street alone, and he turns off at the next intersection, he’s not prepared to wait another two hours, bumper-to-bumper, just to get home.

It doesn’t happen on purpose. He doesn’t even recognize the street at first.

He drives past the bakery, and he sees someone dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt further down the street, who is clearly not enjoying their downpour (Michael wonders if it’s James - he’d mentioned something about walking home, had he not?) and as he gets closer, he realizes that yes, it is indeed James. Michael knows from just seeing his back - is that bad? He’s torn. It’s raining, and it’s warm inside his car. He doesn’t want James to walk home in the rain (it’s cold - what if he gets sick?) he can see him, he’s not drenched, but there’s rainwater dripping from his dark hair, matting it to his damp forehead and Michael wants nothing more than to engulf him in an overstuffed quilt and cuddle him warm.

Where did that come from?

He slows his speed to match James’ (lucky for him the Ford in front of him is stalling horribly and his speed really isn’t that obvious), and his hands go tight around the wheel, so tight he’s honestly surprised he doesn’t crush it in his grip. He nearly pulls over twice, shifts his hands to turn the wheel, but something stops him each time.

What would James think?

He stops himself.

_Michael - he’ll think you’re a nutcase. Go home._

He does.

He takes a left where James turns right.

-

Thursday begins on a low note, mainly because of the weather. Michael arrives at work soaked through, and he’s immensely glad their office is heated. He’s been frozen since he lugged himself out of bed. Mr. Vaughn wasn’t impressed with his drenched state, but only told him to become familiar with an umbrella, for god’s sake. It’d been raining for nearly two weeks straight, you’d think Michael would’ve done that by now.

He stops off at the News Agency on his way to lunch, and he intends to buy one, he really does. But the only one left is a bright, lollypop pink and there’s no way he’s using that.

Instead, he continues right on to the bakery, and James is alone there, with the exception of the not-so-subtle, obnoxious, blonde boy.

James’ face positively lights up as Michael strides through that doorway (at least - Michael really hopes it’s because of him) and the blonde boy (Lucas, so his name tag says) melds into the back room as Michael reaches the counter, he smiles at James, and takes the paper bag offered to him, he pauses when he catches sight of another little white box (another personalized cupcake? God, he hopes so).

“Another surprise?” He arches a brow, and looks up at James as he digs his wallet from his back pocket and pays for the muffin, he remembers the red velvet cupcakes idly, and he honestly had thought they had pixie dust in them or something, they were positively heavenly.

“Those cakes were divine.” He nods, solemnly, “January is mad.” and he reaches out to slip three more fivers into James’ tip jar, but it’s snatched out of his reach before he’s close enough. He looks up, and James is holding it to his chest, narrowing his eyes almost comically at Michael.

Michael’s shoulders drop, and he’s still holding the cash between them, “Please?”

James just shakes his head, and holds the jar like it’s got his heart within it. Michael sighs with a slight smile and slips the notes back into his pocket.

“Thank you, though. Really.” Michael looks up, and James’ cheeks are flushed now, “I’m glad you like them.” and Michael’s gaze seems to fall to his lips, he admires the way they curve around James’ words.

He waves an impatient hand, “I should really be thanking you.” He scoops up James’ little box, and pulls back his sleeve to glance at the time, if he’s intent on getting this umbrella in time, he really needs to run, “I should be off.” and James’ gaze is on the silver watch, Michael thinks he sees something flicker in those deep blue eyes, but he doesn’t know what, “I’ll see you tomorrow, James.” He gives him another smile, a nod, and he leaves. It’s cold outside.

-

Michael has James’ cupcake instead of his usual caramel muffin with lunch and it’s like an angel flew into his mouth and died on his tongue. It’s about the best thing he’s ever tasted and he’s starting to re-think that saying that Kevin had imprinted into his mind. But if James had made it to any muscle of his body, it can’t be his heart (maybe it was his stomach?) but it was definitely his cock, which had reverted back to it’s teenage self and still demanded Michael’s undivided attention too goddamn often.

The corner shop only had more bright pink umbrellas and Michael decides something is out to get him.

-

If it’s any consolation, Michael has another fuzzy dream about James.

He’s all spread out over Michael’s desk, work documents under his flushed skin and he’s pleading, he’s fucking begging for attention, for Michael to touch him, but Michael’s finding himself unable to move. He’s literally rooted to the spot, eyes glued intently on James who is making these little noises, and when Michael doesn’t move, his hands slide down the length of his own little body, down past his spread thighs to his dusky, puckered hole. His fingers glide over that tight ring of muscle, and it twitches in response and Michael stifles his own groan as he watches James’ fingers sink into himself.

He wants to move over there, replace James’ fingers with his own, with his tongue. He wants nothing more than to fuck him into that stupid mahogany desk, loud enough for the entire office to hear - fuck it if he doesn’t care, because this sight - James’ fingers crammed into himself, with his leaking cock curved up to his stomach - it’s going to kill him.

Michael is too embarrassed to relay what happened after he woke up.

He will say that he didn’t need to use his hands for anything after all.

-

“He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” Kevin is saying, they’re going over briefing cases together in the conference room, steaming mugs of coffee between them.

“Who? You? I told you January was too good for you.” Michael says, without looking up. He flicks to the next page of this case, and the defendant’s name is James and his dream threatens to resurface, but when he sees a picture of the bloke in question, he’s a sixty-two year old, overweight male with heart palpitations its… enough to stamp out that rush.

“Not me, you dick.” Kevin lifts his coffee, swirls the scalding liquid around the styrofoam cup, “James. He’s single.”

Michael looks up, “How do you kno-- How is this relevant?”

Kevin lifts his mug to his lips, and Michael can see his smirk. The bastard.

“January told me. She said he’d get a lot more work done if he wasn’t making the eyes at you.” He takes a mouthful and makes a face - the coffee’s still too hot, “Do something about it.”

Michael sighs, “and we would get a lot more work done if you weren’t so concerned with my private life.”

It promptly begins to rain - correction, it continues to positively waterfall down. Both he and Kevin stare blankly out the wide windows of the conference room.

“Your break starts in five.” Kevin murmurs.

Michael blinks at the rain, and checks the time again. He looks up at the window again, and chews at the inside of his cheek. He feels more than sees Kevin roll his eyes.

“You can’t be serious.”

Michael stands, and closes the file, “I’ll be back soon.”

“For Christ’s sake, Michael. You’ve lost it.”

Michael ignores him, tugs his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugs it over his shoulders.

“The cupcakes or the kid? Just answer me honestly, just this once!”

He slams the door closed after him.

-

He doesn’t regret his decision. It’s raining, yes, and he’s soaked through within moments of stepping out into the street and he doesn’t give a fuck. He jogs down to the bakery, eager to get out of the rain as quickly as possible and it’s not the cupcakes anymore. He doesn’t even care anymore. He doesn’t even bother with the caramel muffins anymore, throws them away the moment he gets back to the office in favour of James’ cakes because they’re just that much nicer. Michael can ask him for a coffee-date, can’t he? He can do that, can’t he?

He pushes open the door and almost stumbles into the bakery, and it’s empty. He hardly hears the bell tinkling over the rain. Michael shakes his hair out of his eyes and he hears a laugh from behind the display, it’s James. Michael rather likes the sound - and his smile.

“You don’t have to return to the office after this, then?” James asks, amusement threaded through his voice, and Michael reflects that smile.

“Oh, no. I do. It wont matter.” He shakes his head, Kevin can come up with something for him, he thinks. Since he’s so eager to get Michael laid.

He sees James with the tongs in hand, he’s got a caramel muffin bagged, and he’s going for some caramel slice, “No.” He stops James, and rests his arms on the display, getting the glass wet, too, “I want something you made. Your cakes are the nicest if I’m to be honest.”

That owlish look returns to James’ expression, “Thank you.” He says, and his voice seems tight, and that smile spreads itself over his lips again and it’s wider than before, it reaches his eyes and Michael can’t help but return it.

“Al-Alright, uh… I made uh… double choc-”

“I’ll have those.” Michael says, quickly, cutting James off.

“You don’t even--”

“It wont matter. It’ll be nice, whatever it is.”

Michael stamps down the urge to wink, and watches James grin and shake his head, before putting the tongs down, and turning his back momentarily as he heads into the back room. Michael watches him go, his smile remains firmly in place. He tugs his wallet free from his pocket the moment James vanishes from sight, and slips forty dollars into the tip jar, he returns his wallet to his pocket just in time - James returns with another box in hand - and tries to pass the movement off by leaning, casually, against the display. If James notices anything odd, he certainly doesn’t show it.

He takes the box and bag from James with a “Thank you.” and pays him for the muffin (he attempts to pay more but James waves him off and confiscates the tip jar instead, little does he know).

“Good luck.” James adds as he turns to leave, nodding pointedly at the bucketing rain.

“I’ll need it.” Michael grins over his shoulder, and uses his jacket to shelter the little box.

-

He’s kicked out of the office before he can even set a soaked foot out of the elevator. Matthew refuses to allow him in, and sends him home to change. Michael feels as if he’s back in school yet does as he’s told.

Sadly, he has no other clean ties other than the muppet ones his sister had given him for christmas last year, so he chooses the cookie monster one instead. It’s the least unconventional of the lot, and he decides it’s somewhat fitting to James’ godsend cookies.

-

He’s driving home, and he’s avoided traffic just fine until now - he takes the very same detour that he’d taken just the other day, and evidently the smart idea of purchasing an umbrella seems to have slipped James’ mind, too. Michael sees him at the end of the bakery’s street, he’s drenched to the bone, his shirt is stuck to his skin, and his slacks look like some odd brand of seaweed.

Michael has no control over himself in that moment, his hands seem to move for him, turning the wheel to angle the car and he’s pulling up beside James, reaching over the passenger seat to wind down the window. He just sort of hovers there for a moment in indecision, but he sees James lift a shaking hand to his soaked hair, and his instincts seem to take over - he’ll get sick if he drags himself home in this.

“James!” Michael calls, and James whirls around, wet hair flying into his eyes, he catches sight of Michael, and he looks momentarily confused, “Come on!”

James hesitates, looks back up the street, and then back to Michael and then he’s coming over, and Michael pushes the door open for him. Leans back into his seat as James clambers in, and he doesn’t care that the passenger seat is soaked through. The person in it is more important.

“I uh… my apartment’s downtown.” Lord, even his voice is quivering. Michael’s hands anchor down firmly around the wheel.

“It’s alright, mine isn’t far.” Michael says, almost flatly. He’s really got no intention of taking James home. Yes, he is rather aware of how… scary that sounds, but he - he just needs to get this out of his system so he can move on with life. Christ. He’s aware of James sitting there - using his arms to wind around his own chest to keep him warm. Michael turns on the heater.

“You’re drenched!” He’s back on the road, his windscreen wipers turned up to full, doing their best to keep the rain off the glass, “I think a coffee would do you good, don’t you?”

James doesn’t answer, and Michael takes that to mean yes, James does think a coffee would do him good. It takes him five minutes in total to get home, and they drive in relative silence (because the rain is deafening and James seems to shuffle forward in his seat for the warmth of the heater).

They reach his home, and he drives quickly up the driveway, and James is too busy unbuttoning the sleeves of his shirt to get a proper look at Michael’s house, and he’s silently incredibly glad.

Michael gets out of the car before James does, and James isn’t far behind. Michael urges him on with a gentle “Come on.” and places a hand between James’ shoulder blades because he just needs to touch because brushing fingers isn’t nearly enough, and even though James is cold, his skin somehow manages to feel warm through the damp material of his shirt and it’s not nearly enough for Michael.

He leads the poor boy over to his leather couch, and shrugs out of his jacket, slings it around James’ narrow shoulders while he goes to make their coffee. But really - the moment he steps into the kitchen, his dream comes back to him, and he realizes it’s entirely possible at this point in time. The object of said dream was just a few feet away, all Michael needs is an apron and James’ name tag and he’d be able to re-enact the entire thing - James wouldn’t even need to say a word. He doesn’t mind the wet hair, either. It just makes James look like a lost puppy. Which suits him. Terribly so. He’s going insane. That’s the bottom line here.

He manages to make their coffees (one sugar for James) and he returns to the couch and hands it over. James looks positively uncomfortable where he sits, stiffly between two of the centre cushions, his shoulders rigid. Michael falls into place beside him, and there’s far too great of a distance between them.

“You’re Scottish.” He says, more of a statement than a question, and he takes a mouthful of the warm coffee.

James is silent for a moment, “Yeah.” he looks at Michael, “You’re Irish.”

“German-Irish.” Michael nods once, and the liquid in James’ mug is shaking with his hand, “You look like you enjoy your job.” He murmurs, because James genuinely does. He’s all smiles at the bakery, and now that Michael thinks about it, it’s about the opposite of the office - where he works. Everyone there seems to hate themselves, each other and their kids. But to his surprise, James frowns.

“It pays the bills, but…”

When he doesn’t finish, Michael’s brows knit together, “But?”

James hesitates, doesn’t look at Michael, selfishly keeps his eyes on his untouched coffee. “It’s not what I’d like to be doing.”

Michael can relate to that.

“What would you like to be doing?”

This silence draws out. James says nothing, merely shifts his hands around the base of his coffee. Michael’s gaze remains on him, and he can see the faint, pink, tint touch James’ cheeks all over again. He balls his left hand into a fist to keep it from straying, his right remains firmly attached to the mug’s handle.

“I uh…” James’ voice is muffled, soft, and he barely whispers, “I want to be an actor.”

Michael can’t help himself - he grins widely, hugely, because it’s like James just read his mind.

“So you always wanted to be a lawyer?” He asks abruptly, and Michael thinks he hears a note of offense therein, and he’s still shaking - still freezing, so Michael sets his coffee down.

“No. I never did.” He stands then, brushes off the question entirely, “Come. You’ll start losing limbs if we don’t get you out of these clothes.” he takes James’ arm, and he barely has time to set down his own coffee before he’s stumbling after Michael because he feels like this is another dream, and he’s about to wake up, just as he has James naked and pleading under him, but he drives his nail into his thigh just to make sure and it hurts.

So he’s not dreaming, then.

_Fantastic._

They ascend the stairs, and James’ breath is shaking and uneven behind him, and they’re in his bedroom now and good God, how is this not a dream? Michael distracts himself by tugging his wardrobe door open and rifling around for something small enough to fit James. 

"If any of this fits you, I’ll be impressed.” He says, he does find something, an old football jersey from years ago, and when he stands, James is unbuttoning his shirt and something chases all coherent thoughts from Michael’s mind, replaces them all with; fuck, hard, _now._

“What?” James says, and his eyes go wide, owlishly wide, and he blinks and his lips are parted, plump and red. Michael’s slacks feel tight. 

“You’re soaked.” He murmurs. 

“I’m aware of that.” James’ voice is still quivering, and his trembling hands are fumbling over his buttons, so Michael lets go of the jersey and steps over to him, bats his hands out of the way and replaces them with his own, unbuttons the next few when he feels James’ warm breath skate over his neck, and his gaze flicks up from the pale skin beneath the shirt and James is looking at him, and their lips are inches apart, just a fingerbreath at best and Michael leans down, carefully, as if he were some sort of predator trying not to spook his prey and then his lips meet James’ and he forgets what a button even is. 

He’s expecting James to pull away, to reel back and shove him away, to call him some kind of creep, but he doesn’t. He thinks he hears James make a strangled sound at the back of his throat, and their lips seem to slot seamlessly together, but then James presses into him. Presses his soaked shirt against Michael, and he’s cold, but he’s there and he’s not pulling away and Michael isn’t dreaming. 

He runs his tongue along James’ lower lip and they fall apart again, and then Michael is everywhere, he devours James, all the pent up lust and attraction pooling into the pit of his stomach and his hands dive down the curve of James’ waist, down to his heavy trousers and he unbuckles the too-big belt, and tugs the sodden article of clothing down because he just needs to feel, and then he pulls back, their lips separate with a wet sound and he pushes James down onto his bed before the other even has a chance to regain his breath and Michael is on top of him again. He pushes James’ soaked shirt up, rucks it up to his armpits and runs his calloused and rough hands over James’ silk-smooth skin, over his chest, his hips and his thighs, and it’s like he’s making up for all of those stupid dreams, committing every part of James to his memory like an explorer marking points on a map. 

“If this isn’t what you want… you need to tell me to stop,” His hips find the swell of James’ ass, and he grinds down, and he feels James’ breath hitch, “Now.” 

James doesn’t answer. Michael’s stomach almost drops with regret. 

"Well?” His hands anchor down around James’ hips. 

Then, “Don’t stop.” Spills from James’ lips, and Michael’s hands are moving again, sliding up his sides and his tongue finds a sliver of wet skin at the nape of James’ neck, and he bites down sharply, and he’s rewarded with something that can only be described as a sob from James. It shoots straight to his cock, and he isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to be able to hold on for. He’s wanted this for too goddamn long - and it’s been something several careless, faceless fucks haven’t been able to fix - he’s going to make James feel it. Just like it’s been haunting him for weeks, it’s going to haunt James. 

Michael’s going to make sure of it. 

His hand finds the small of James’ back and he gives it a rough shove, and James is pushed face-first into his sheets, and Michael leans over him, finds the bottle of lube he’s used possibly four times since he bought this place and he draws it back to them - he’s out of condoms, but fuck it - he’s clean. 

He pours a generous amount onto his fingers, and he can hear James’ labored breathing, his back is damp, and shining in the gloom from the clouds, and the steady rise-fall is almost cozy - Michael does. Not. _Cuddle_. Thank you. 

He leans back on his knees, James’ legs are spread wide, on either side of Michael’s clothed knees, and when Michael runs a finger down between his cheeks, James jerks. Michael grins. 

“You’ve never done this before, James?” He asks, cuffing the cleft of James’ ass with his other hand, he tugs it aside and good fucking _god-_

“No, I… I have but I’ve…” He sounds too hesitant, too light, and he’s still shaking. 

"Don’t lie.” Michael shifts forward, rests his other hand on the mattress beside James’ head, and whispers, “I’ll be gentle.” and his other hand finds James’ little pucker and then he’s pressing inside, watching the side of James’ face intently, and he sees his eyelids flicker, so he shifts back, urges James’ hips upward and winds his other arm around - he’s still hard. So Michael strokes him gently, and when James’ hips begin to cant into him, he slides a second finger in beside the first, and James’ breath cuts off entirely for a moment, and he buries his face into his sheets, an almost child-like gesture. 

Michael grins. 

He’s trying to find that place - he knows it’s there somewhere. He bends his fingers, scissors gently, bends again and then James’ hips buck into his hand, and a broken sob passes his lips and Michael knows he’s found it, and Michael’s grin is positively predatory when he leans in again, nibbles on James’ earlobe, and urges him on quietly, James’ hands have turned to fists in the sheets, and his back has made Michael’s chest damp, but he barely notices. He’s sure to touch that place within James a few more times, gives him a taste of what’s to come, and when he feels James hanging on the edge, he withdraws, and James’ hips thrust air, desperate for some sort of release. 

Michael finds the lube bottle once again, and unzips his slacks, he’s straining against them, and his cock is almost throbbing in anticipation. More than ready to claim James six ways to Sunday, and it’s surreal. Michael doesn’t think he’s ever had his dreams come true before, yet here James was. Thighs spread wide just for him. 

Another bolt shoots to his cock and he pours a generous amount of lube over himself and over James’ dusky hole before he moves in (and it’s on the quilt but fuck it to hell). He presses insistently against James, and there’s a few moments before James relaxes enough to let him in and Michael’s only just got the head inside and his eyes are already rolling back into his skull because Christ he’s tight, and he’s squirming beneath Michael now, and those aren’t pleasure-sounds that are spilling from his lips, but they’re no less titillating. 

James pushes up onto his elbows, his head bent low, hair hanging down to brush at the quilt, and Michael runs a hand up his sweat-and-rain-slicked back. He reaches the nape of James’ neck, and tugs his head up, licks a careful stripe up the length of James’ throat, and murmurs; “You feel divine.” He presses a warm kiss to James’ cheek, and he can see from here, James’ eyes are hooded, half-open, “Little bakery boy, eh? Who would have thought.” He grins, presses another warm kiss to James’ cheek before he releases him, and James’ head falls forward all over again. He gives James a few moments to collect himself, but Michael is too goddamn impatient. 

Their pace begins slow, he’s careful to guide James forward, and then back onto his cock, and he listens to the delicate sounds that James makes with each steady stroke, he looks down at where they are joined, at the way James’ ass swells as it presses down on his hips, and he can’t keep this up for much longer. He speeds up gradually, and snaps his hips forward, and James’ sounds are definitely from pleasure, now. He’s just as vocal as he had been in Michael’s dreams, each thrust rewards Michael with a dripping sound. 

His left hand unhinges itself from James’ hip, and finds his shoulder instead, curls carefully around the muscle there and he uses it to shove James down harder onto him, he thrusts in deeper each time, and James is still so tight and warm and wet and it’s wonderful. Each thrust is like a taste of bliss and Michael doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to keep this up.

James shifts from where he is, tries to turn, so Michael’s thrusts pause, and his hands move to the smaller man’s middle, he’s able to easily flip James onto his back - surprised at how light he seems to be. His thrusts stall, but their rhythm is back almost instantly, and James’ thighs are strong around Michael’s waist, bracketing him in and Michael’s hands close around James’ hips all over again, and James is bright red. All over. Cheeks to chest, he’s red - and Michael’s shirt is sticking to his back, James pulls him in for a wet kiss, he’s surprised, but he responds as best he can, releasing James’ hip with his right hand to steady himself on the mattress beside James’ head instead. 

“How does it feel?” He asks, when they part, his voice is rough and James doesn’t answer, his eyes are half-closed with pleasure, mouth open wide, nose wrinkled, “Hmm?” 

“G-Good - oh fuck-…” James’ head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat to Michael, whom presses a kiss to the dip in his collar bone, James’ arm unwinds from Michael’s broad shoulders, reaches down between them, and the moment Michael realizes what he’s trying to do, he catches his thin wrist, tugs him back and pins it to the mattress where his hand had been a moment ago. 

“No. You’ll come like this,” Because it’s how he’s come in every single one of Michael’s dreams, untouched, “From this.” 

It’s the final straw for James, Michael feels him clench down, impossibly tight and hot around him, and then he’s shaking, his nails are biting into Michael’s skin through his shirt and he comes in hot stripes over the both of them, paints his stomach, chest and the front of Michael’s shirt with a delectable sound that drags Michael over the edge with him just moments later, pumping James full of his come and good god he doesn’t think he’s ever come this hard in his entire goddamn life, his abdominals pulse with each stuttering thrust as he milks himself out, and then he falls, his arms seem to give out, and he collapses atop James, he hears the breath rush out of the younger’s lungs. 

He barely feels James’ arms winding around him, holding him in place and no, Michael doesn’t cuddle fucking ever, ever, ever, ev- 

Maybe just this once. 

“I feel like we skipped a step.” James is saying and Michael barely registers at first, he sounds about as tired as Michael feels, “Normally it takes a date, maybe two… some dinner. You know.” 

Michael does know, but he laughs once. “I wasn’t prepared to wait that long, thank you.” He answers, honestly, and he rears his hips back, and his cock slips easily from James, and they both seem to shudder at the loss. He doesn’t want James to leave - he’s not quite ready to part ways with this strange and intoxicating man, not just yet. 

“Sleep here.” He murmurs, pushes up from James enough to look him in the eye, “I’m keen on a pancake breakfast. You can make pancakes, right?” 

James shoves playfully at his arm, “You can’t exploit me for this.” 

Michael laughs again, and begins to untie his stained and twisted tie, he rolls off James to unbutton his shirt and slide out of his slacks and briefs, James manages to struggle free of his rumpled shirt and then they’re both under the covers and Michael and sleep meet almost immediately - for once, his lust-addled dreams are held at bay.

-

The next morning, Michael is alone in bed. It takes him a moment to remember last night, to remember how goddamn insistent he’d been about it all not being a fucking dream and yet… here he is. Alone. He reaches out for the empty space beside him, and there’s just a hint of warmth in the sheets, as if someone had been there not too long ago, and there’s a definite dent in the pillow. He pushes himself up, sits up, and runs a hand over his face, back through his hair. Last night returns to him slowly, piece by piece, sliding into place, and he remembers the idle promise of pancakes in the morning, and come to think of it, he can smell something.

He finds a pair of grey sweats and tugs them on, before he bounds down the stairs, eager to see if his suspicions prove to be true. 

They do. 

James is in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pink apron tied around his waist (a christmas present from Michael’s mother that he’d never once used), a spatula in hand over Michael’s gas cooktop. He looks up as Michael draws closer, a soft smile touches his lips, and he runs a hand over James’ behind, remembers last night with even more clarity, and usually he’s done with his nightly romps by now. Usually, he’s struggling for excuses to kick them out, but James looks good here - just like the bite-sized bruise at the base of his neck looks good there, (looks at home there). 

“Morning.” He says, turns slightly to look at Michael, whom says nothing, presses his lips to the curve of James’ neck, “Your kitchen was designed for the atomic bomb. I’m sure of it.” 

Michael laughs once, “Industrial.” He says into James’ skin. 

“Dangerous.” James corrects him. “Sit down. I’m almost done.” 

“No.” Michael says, his hands continue to roam the expanse of James’ skin, and he watches the sizzling batter in the pan over James’ shoulder, “I’ve a nice view from here.” and James brings the spatula back to the pan, eases it beneath the pancake, and flips it over, easily, as if he’d done it his entire life. That’s usually the part Michael struggles with. The batter sticks to the pan so much that when he tries to slip the spatula beneath it, the pancake refuses to allow him to, and he ends up with some sort of strange sausage-shaped, charred and tasteless excuse for a pancake. This, on the other hand, it’s soft, round and perfectly shaped - like James’ backside, which his hands are incredibly preoccupied with. 

“Michael.” James murmurs, and Michael brings his left hand up to his lips, slips his first to fingers into his mouth for a moment, before he returns to James’ ass. 

“Spread your legs for me.” He murmurs. 

“Michael!” James hisses. “Not here I’m--” 

“Do it.” 

James does, after a moments hesitation, and Michael presses in with his middle finger to begin with, and James’ hands shoot for the edges of the bench top to keep him upright, Michael finds that place inside him immensely easily, after last night, and brushes over it - teases over it - gently, and James’ knees shake. 

He slips his second in, and James’ head falls back, now. Rests on Michael’s bare shoulder, and he presses another kiss to James’ cheek. Strokes over that place again and again, until James is whimpering in his arms. James just barely manages to lift his head, reach out and switch off the cooktop with a shaking hand. 

“Touch yourself.” Michael urges from over his shoulder, and James does, through the fabric of his apron with his free hand, squeezes his hand into a fist around himself. 

Michael watches from over James’ shoulder, finger-fucking him steadily, and then he comes, hot and fast with a hushed, “Oh, God.” staining the front of Michael’s apron. 

Michael only chuckles, draws back, slowly. “Look what you’ve done, James.” He murmurs, and James looks up, cheeks so red they almost glow, “Gift from my mother, dearest, that was.” 

“Shut up.” James snaps, and takes the fry pan off the cooktop, he flips it over onto one of the two plates set out on the bench beside the cooktop, and hands one of the two plates to Michael. “I don’t know where you keep the maple syrup or Honey or-” 

“Fridge. All of it.” 

“You’re not meant to keep honey in the fridge.” 

“Really?” Michael raises his brows, “I always thought you were.” 

James shakes his head incredulously, and it takes a solid ten minutes for the ample amount of honey to detach itself from the bottom of the bottle to the top so that they can pour it onto their pancakes, but when they do, Michael decides James is God. He is God when it comes to cooking and he never wants the other man to leave. He wants to lock him in the kitchen, forever.

-

They fall into rhythm before they quite know it. No, James doesn’t move in to Michael’s place. He admits that he isn’t incredibly fond of it and shows Michael his apartment which is terrifyingly similar to the one Michael moved out of. It doesn’t even happen intentionally. Their lunches turn into dinners with turn into breakfasts which meld into the rest of the week and Michael drives James to work in the mornings and comes past to pick him up, and sometimes on the odd day Michael has to stay back at the office, he doesn’t have to watch January slip into Kevin’s office and close his door to drown out their questionable sounds - because James is usually the one slipping into his office.

Michael’s never quite had so many of his dreams come true before

-

“Oh, Kevin?”

“Yeah?” 

They’re packing up from their late afternoon in the conference room and James is waiting for him downstairs. 

“You were right.” 

“Of corse I was.” Kevin pauses, closing the case file between them, “...about what?” 

Michael gives him a wide-toothed smile. A leer. 

“The best way to a man’s heart is actually... through his stomach.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Mcfassy prompt-fest a little while ago~ and thank you everyone for all your kind comments/words! Thank you for the artworks and such (I've seen all of them! They're all wonderful!) and fanmixes~ you are all so lovely!


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